Batman Episode 2: Gotham's Guardian
by Raw Sewage Writings
Summary: With Gotham on the brink of war, a new watchman will emerge from the shadows...
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

The salty air of the docks mingled with the tension. Salvatore Moroni didn't mind it a single bit, the smell of Gotham Bay was a nice change of pace from the slums he usually found himself in and the tension simply fed his adrenaline. When it came to handling business, he was nowhere as suave as The Roman, but this confrontation was different. This was Black Mask. It wasn't very clear how the meet was arranged since Maroni himself had never made personal contact with anyone from Black Mask's organization. Through secure channels, by word of mouth, news finally made it back to Maroni that the crime lord had accepted his invitation. As Maroni thought about it, he shrugged it off, he didn't care how it all was arranged, only that it was about to go down. There in the warehouse of the container yard of Falcone Shipping Company, Maroni stood in wait dressed in his fine grey Italian made suit, flanked by two other men in similar clothing. Cradled in their hands were Uzi submachine guns, but Maroni stood unarmed with his hands in his pockets. He wasn't worried about his own protection but just to be safe, five other henchmen waited in the rear office just one door away. Behind the three men, parked in the wide open space in the center of the warehouse was Maroni's sleek black Lancia Thesis. Through the gap of the partially open automated door, Maroni finally spotted the glare of headlights. A snide smirk spread on his face. A finely polished, black '78 Mercury Grand Marquis glistened under the rafter lights in the warehouse. The car stopped, parking more than twenty feet away from where Maroni stood.

"Showtime," Maroni muttered, tugging at the cuffs of his grey suit jacket, smirking smugly as he took five paces closer to the Grand Marquis. All doors of the car opened and four men all emerged from behind the black tinted windows. The four men were identical in every way, wearing black suits and their identities hidden by plain black face masks. Of the four, the mobster from the passenger's seat took point. Maroni locked eyes with him, scoffing as he halted three yards from the four men. "You Black Mask?" he asked pointing at the man. All four remained silent. The man up front dug into his pants pocket and drew a cellphone. Pressing one button, he then held out the phone for Maroni to take. Again Maroni scoffed.

"What is this?" he demanded.

"Talk," the man replied, his voice slightly muffled behind his face mask. Maroni glanced to the men on his flanks with the Uzis before striding the three yards and taking the phone, his sunken eyes piercing into the wide open gaze of the mobster. Maroni brought the phone to his ear, then spoke.

"You know I consider this a grievous insult," he barked in a perturbed tone. "Our first meeting and you send these mooks with a frickin cell phone, this is not how you conduct business here in Gotham!"

"Get to the damn point or I'm hanging up right now," a gruff voice replied over the line. A venomous look set in Maroni's eyes.

"Who do you think you are? You don't talk to me like that you son of a-"

"Goodbye," Black Mask jeered.

"Wait, wait, wait!" Maroni shouted. He gave flustered, fake smile as he attempted to project a more civil attitude. "Alright, look, we're both reasonable men, we can do business," he said.

"Talk," Black Mask said.

"Alright," Maroni said to compose himself.

"All this hostility between you and Falcone, there's no reason for it. You understand that all of this is bad for business. Your organization and mine together, would have no equal. Then we go beyond Gotham," Maroni said excitedly. "Bludhaven, Metropolis, Central City, Chicago, even as far as frickin Star City!" Maroni paused to await a reply but continued on when it didn't come. "Now its obvious, you have some beef with old man Falcone, and frankly, you aint the only one. The Roman's old fashioned and he don't like to get his hands dirty. This aint the same Gotham City the Falcones built generations ago, you and I both know that. Its time for the old man to step down and with his only son already in the ground I take his place. Now you'll find, I'm much more reasonable and together, we'll own every major city in the nation." Maroni finished, his greed and ambition apparent on his face. He waited for Black Mask to respond but instead all he heard was laughter.

"You in Carmine's place!" he exclaimed. "That's rich. And I aint got a beef with Falcone, its purely business, he's the competition and he's in my way. Now this meeting is over." Maroni shook with anger.

"You don't want to make me your enemy," he snarled into the phone.

"Either you let my boys go, or you get an extra hole in your head," Black Mask said without of trace of humor in his gruff voice. Maroni frowned, looking at the four waiting, masked figures. "Right now I have a sniper on you just waiting for you to make the wrong move," Black Mask said. "Adios, Sally." The call ended, leaving a dial tone on Maroni's line. Shooting another venomous stare at the four men, he then threw down the cell phone, stomping on it angrily till it lay in pieces. Suddenly the track system of the giant warehouse door grinded as it closed. "What the hell," Maroni exclaimed, flinching from the echo of the mechanism. The door sealed shut then a second later, every light inside went out with an unison echoing snap. The men inside all shuttered as the darkness engulfed them.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"What the!"

"What happened to the lights?" The door in the rear creaked open and fire more armed henchmen stormed inside, fumbling through the darkness.

"Someone get the lights back on!" one of them shouted. One of the Black Mask thugs moved back to the Grand Marquis and gunned the engine, turning on the head lights. One of the men flanking Maroni did the same with their own car.

"Maroni, get that door open!" the Black Mask representative demanded, drawing a chrome M19A11 from a shoulder holster.

"Steiss, get the door open!" one of the mobsters barked. Drawn like moths to the light, the armed henchmen slowly consolidated to where the cars created the only radius of visibility in the thick darkness of the warehouse. A henchman drifted to close to Maroni, nearly bumping into him.

"Get out there and fix this!" he growled, huffing with anxiety.

"Steiss! Did you hear me?" the mobster called out again. The Black Mask mobsters all had weapons drawn now as they kept close to their Grand Marquis. As a henchman scanned the darkness around him, he spotted another dressed in plain street clothes with his MP5 clutched close. Suddenly, the thug was swallowed by the darkness with a wail. The henchman jumped, eyes wide with fright.

"What in the world," he muttered as he forced himself to inch closer. Through the haze of darkness, he could barely make out a shape. Looking closer, he found the man that had disappeared dangling upside down, out cold and strung up by one of his legs. The other leg bent awkwardly and his arms hung loosely, his MP5 discarded on the floor below him.

"Holy frick!" the henchman screamed loudly, attracting the attention of another. As he inched closer, he too exclaimed in horror.

"How'd-." The two felt a sudden whoosh, tickle the backs of their necks before two large hands grasped their faces and slammed them together like cymbals. The blow stunned them instantly, making the legs go limp as they slumped to the floor. One of Maroni's mobsters dressed in a fine suite leveled his Uzi as he made his way to the source of pained groaning. Turning the corner of a stack of shipping containers, he instantly spotted the two on the floor then noticed the third strung up to the walkway above. Backing away, he bumped into the corner of the container, then stumbled away in a hurry.

"There's something going on here," he said with a quiver in his voice. Maroni glared back at him

"What do you mean?" he demanded. He jumped slightly, his wide open gaze drawn overhead by the sudden clatter of metal on metal. "Everyone on me!" he barked. Still the Black Mask mobsters orbited their car. From the shadows to the right, a sparking flash emitted and with a scream, one of the mobsters in black was yanked forward into the shadows. Gunfire burst from the two huddles of thugs.

"Stop, stop!" shouted one of the mobsters. "You'll hit him!"

"Yeah and the thing that got him too," a henchman said.

"Check to see if its dead?" a mobster said to another.

"Are you kidding?" he exclaimed. A sudden burst of utter blackness surged past the edges of light, taking another of Maroni's henchmen with it. The crime boss felt the gust but knew it was too late as soon as the scream faded into the darkness. From his own jacket, Maroni drew a Sig Sauer P226. With a sudden crash, all four headlights burst with glass, leaving the warehouse in complete darkness. Maroni shook, now staring at where the bulbs had once been lit with life. The sudden sounds of struggle, blindly attracted his attention. As Black Mask's mobsters managed to fire off a total of three rounds, the flashes of the muzzles offered little illumination. Maroni and his three remaining men cowered in the dark as the screams of the mobsters suddenly went silent. Another sparking flash burst, but not long enough for them to notice before the thug to Maroni's left, the last of the backup team, was wrenched off his feet overhead into the shadows. It all happened too fast as suddenly the darkness produced a black figure. A ghostly shape soared their direction. Petrified, none of them could force their trigger fingers to move. Maroni was hit hard, powered with momentum as the shape landed on top of him. Terrified, the last suited henchman took off as fast as his quivering legs could carry him. Maroni's heart pounded in his chest as his upper body was lifted off of the hard floor of the warehouse. The shape was menacing, in the utter blackness blurred any features but more terrifying were the two, long, sharp ears on the top of its head. Maroni felt its breath as it inched his face closer to its own.

"You're finished," a deep growling voice said just over a whisper. Maroni's silent scream choked him as it stuck in his throat before he suddenly felt one final blow and the darkness all faded to an even deeper black.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Maroni won't talk, even if he were conscious, but it wasn't Maroni that he wanted. It was obvious from the phone conversation that the crime boss knew little more than even the police about Black Mask. But the henchman wearing a black suit and mask, he would know and he would talk. His closely shaved head still hung but started to jerk as he slowly regained consciousness. Groaning, he lifted his head, struggling only to find both his wrists fastened to armrests and his ankles to the legs of a chair. He jostled in his seat, grunting angrily. "I wouldn't if I were you," a deep voice warned harshly. The mobster stared straight in front to find a tall, black figure shrouded in darkness. The figure's demonic posture was intensified by the two long, sharp, horn like ears standing on top. Its face was covered entirely except for the opening baring his upper lip to his stone like jaw line. Worst of all, the mobster couldn't see any eyes in the darkness, but had the gut-wrenching feeling it was watching him.

"Who- What are you?" the mobster stammered. The figure's shroud opened, yet all the mobster saw was more blackness as an arm emerged. In its hands was mobster's face mask, causing his eyes to go wide he had been exposed.

"Black Mask, I want him," the figure growled. He tossed the mask of hardened plastic to the metal surface of what the mobster quickly realized to be a roof. Only now did he realize that he was sitting on an inclined slant. Behind the figure was the black horizon of the night cloudy night sky over the stretch of Gotham Bay, the lights of the city Bludhaven dimly glowed like ghosts in the distance.

"I aint talking," the mobster muttered. The figure glowered down at him, standing mere feet away from him. Then it lurched forward. With his eyes squeezed shut, the mobster felt gravity shift as he back legs of the chair teetered on the edge of the roof. The mobster screamed as he peered over his shoulder down at the ground, fifty feet below with only the figure's single handed grasp on his shirt to keep him from toppling over. "Oh, no, please don't!" he cried, his pale face contorted with sheer fright.

"Talk!" The figure let its arm extend slightly, tilting the chair back even further.

"Oh, no! Oh frick, please! I can't, he'll kill me!"

"What makes you think I won't?" the figure growled. "I want a name!"

"Okay, okay!" the mobster blubbered uncontrollably. "I don't know, I swear honest!" The figure inched in closer, its eyes glaring deep into the mobster's wild gaze.

"Who does?"

"A guy, one of Black Mask's guys, Flass, his name's Flass!" The sound of sirens emerged as a pair of squad cars turned the corner, entering the shipping yard, the flashing red and blue lights approaching closer and closer.

"Tell them about me," the figure said.

"Who?" The mobster's face was terror stricken and lost. He felt the grip on his shirt release and for a moment, the chair teetered on the edge before toppling over the edge. The mobster nearly lost his voice as he screamed, plummeting with the ground closing in fast. With a sudden jerk, the fall ended and the chair bound man dangled freely five feet from the pavement. The police cars pulled to a stop and a dark navy blue uniformed policeman threw his door open and stood, frozen as he stared at the chair bound criminal, passed out from fright as he swung to and fro. Brushing back his hair with a look of bewilderment, Officer Gerard Stevens noticed the thin, taught cable tied to the cross bar of the chair's legs, stretching up to the roof. High up on the slanted rooftop, a black figure turned away with a flourish and disappeared. The remaining three officers stepped out of the squad cars, all fixed on the dangling chair.

"Get a load of this," one of them said. His gaze still stuck on the roof, Stevens keyed the radio on his left shoulder.

"Dispatch, we got a 10-92, gonna need an ambulance and," he paused a moment, still trying to piece everything together. "And you better get Captain Gordon down here."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

At the end of the long, dark cave tunnel, the mouth opened wide with a faint glow of dim lights. Passing through the opening, Bruce pulled to a stop with the whine of the sleek black MV Augusta F4 sports bike's engine winding down. He kicked out the stand and swung off the seat. Stored along the side wall of the cave was his Vincent Black Knight. Stiffly standing by was his butler Alfred, watching him with a look that Bruce often saw on his aging face. It was apparent to him that Alfred was fighting a battle within himself, conflicted and still trying comprehend what was happening around him. The boy he had raised had returned home after ten years, a boy no longer and far from an average man either. Above all, he now stared at a man clad fully in a black suit, draped with a long black cape and a demonic cowl. In the gloom of the cave, it was a terrible sight to behold, Bruce Wayne was completely lost, replaced by a shadowy figure in the visage of a bat. It wasn't until Bruce removed the rigid yet flexible Kevlar woven cowl that Alfred's mind registered him as his master. Something was different about Bruce and it was an easy, difference to note. A grin of confidence replaced his brooding frown. He seemed happy, or at least happier than usual. Again, Alfred battle the conflict within.

"You look rather pleased, Master Bruce," he noted stiffly. Bruce walked past him to a set of mobile bulletin boards set around a worktable. The side of the board facing the table was filled with pinned up blue prints and schematics of various equipment, all stamped with the watermark of Wayne Enterprise. On the reverse side was a diagram. Three photo graphs were spaced apart at the top with empty room below them. The photograph in the center was that Salvatore Maroni. Other names were listed below the photos of Maroni and of Falcone but the third, the image of Black Mask, was alone. Bruce retrieved a red marker from the board and slashed an 'X' over Maroni's photo. A disturbed look over came Alfred's eyes, holding his breath as he looked from the photograph to the satisfied face of his master.

"Maroni is in police custody," Bruce said. Alfred exhaled with relief, feeling the tension in his face ease. "And I'm one step closer to finding Black Mask." Underneath the security camera image of the skull masked mobster in white, Bruce wrote the name 'Flass,' his one and only lead. He turned away, walking straight past Alfred who, still watching. Bruce moved to the computer system set in the middle of the cave landing, setting the cowl down on the desk beside the keyboard.

"I trust then that tonight's outing was, productive," Alfred said.

"I got a name from one of Black Mask's thugs," Bruce said with his attention glued fully on the computer. "The name of the thug was Buzz Bronski, I'm doing a search on him to verify if this information is accurate." Bruce sat in the chair of the typing in the name of the thug in a government database with military grade programming.

"Well Master Bruce, I don't mind waiting up for you in the late hours of the night, though I do hope soon you'll be entering through a different door, and quite possibly in the company of a lady friend," Alfred said brazenly.

"Not now, Alfred," Bruce replied, still focused on the computer.

"Is it not yet time for this city to benefit from your return?" Alfred pressed on. Bruce looked away from the computer, staring at Alfred, searching for the right words.

"Bruce Wayne can't help Gotham," Bruce said with vulnerability. A hollow, dull look set in his blue eyes, as if he was surrendering to one distinct idea. "I'm not my father."

"If I may be so bold, sir, it's because you haven't even tried," Alfred refuted hotly. "Your father served this city simply by caring for it, for the people. You share in his conviction. I don't see it in this bat persona," he said bitterly. "But I do see it in Bruce Wayne, in you," he added gently. Alfred turned away, walking down the metal walkway to the central lift of the cave. Bruce's gaze lingered long after the lift ascended. He couldn't remember a time in all his life when Alfred was ever wrong. Sure he made mistakes, occasionally committed in the cooking of meals, but there was a loyalty and wisdom to his dear old butler that, though Bruce had missed over the ten years, yet at the same time had nearly forgotten. The momentary distraction passed as Bruce noticed the change of screens from the corner of his eye. Underneath the name of Bernard Bronski was the mugshot of the very man Bruce had left dangling from the roof of the warehouse. Browsing the profile of police records, one bit of data made him pause. _Bronski is a notable thug for Falcone. He was the one that actually spoke to Maroni in the warehouse. Bronski's working on both sides. I wonder how many other of Falcone's organization works for Black Mask?_


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Gordon stormed back through the door of the department bullpen. All around, eyes glanced away from the rows of desks as he hustled down the middle lane between them, but he didn't care, he was on a time crunch.

"Merkel!" he called out. Stan Merkel stood behind his desk and placed the handset back on the dock with a click. "Merkel, get me two interrogation rooms, we'll run simultaneous sessions," Gordon said.

"Jim, what's going on?" the officer inquired. Gordon leaned in closer with a serious look in his eye.

"We got Maroni," he said with a developing grin as he pushed his glasses back against his face. Grinning ear to ear, Merkel slapped his desk.

"I'll get those rooms," he jeered as he turned away.

"Oh, um," Gordon exclaimed as a thought came to mind, he beckoned Merkel back with a finger. "Forget to tell the Commissioner," he mumbled.

"You got it," the officer muttered back as he turned away and head down the outer lane of the bullpen. Gordon's gaze drifted up to the locked office of the Police Commissioner. Even through the shut, brown window blinds he knew the lights were off and the seat vacant. It was nearing four in the morning. Even with four more hours before Loeb would enter the premises, eyes and ears surrounded them even now. At times, Gordon felt like a lone prey wrapped within the coils of a snake, he knew he was one sudden move away from being devoured.

Gordon stepped inside the cramped, square room, closing the door behind him. Adjacent to the door, was a mirror, reflecting back the image of the small, wooden table bolted to the floor, the back of single empty chair on one side and a disheveled Salvatore Maroni cuffed to a bar on the table on the other. The mob-boss was in disarray, his dark hair matted with loose wild strands sticking out. His black tie was loosed with the top of his rustled, silk maroon shirt undone.

The dull grey walls almost seemed white from the intense glare of the lights overhead. Pressing his blue striped tie against the stomach of his pale green shirt, he sat down in the chair. Gordon had to suppress a chuckle from the almost child-like pouting expression of the feared mob-boss. His dark, sunken eyes were narrow and fixed to a spot on the floor. A gash was bandaged on his forehead, still red with from the mask of dried blood from the cut. However he was taken down, it was brutal.

"I aint saying crap," he spat. "This is an illegal arrest."

"Let's talk about that," Gordon said calmly as he pulled a handkerchief from his shirt pocket and used it to wipe the lenses of his glasses glossy brown, thick framed glasses. "Which one of my officers gave you that cut?" Maroni scoffed, still not smiling with his gapped yellow teeth.

"Are you kidding me?" he snorted. "None of 'your' guys dare touch me, I own them."

"I know," Gordon sighed as he placed his glasses back on the bridge of his crooked nose. "That's why I picked you up myself." Maroni sneered smugly.

"Let me walk right now and I'll forget all about this," he said. "Hell, I'll even see to it you get a nice bonus on your next paystub."

"Not interested," Gordon said stiffly.

"Come on, every man's got a price," Maroni chided.

"I was born without one," Gordon shook his head. "So tell me, Sal," he continued. "My officers found you already tied up and out cold. Maroni's narrow eyes suddenly widened, the whites nearly enveloping the dark circles around them.

"It wasn't no 'who," Maroni mumbled.

"Excuse me?" Gordon refuted.

"I don't what it was. I never quite saw it. It just came out of nowhere and killed all my men." Gordon sat back in the chair with his mouth hung open in disbelief. He could only imagine Merkel sitting behind the mirrored glass window behind him, holding his sides as he laughed.

Removing his glasses, Gordon rubbed his brow as he stepped out into the hallway, closing the door behind him. One door down, Stan Merkel stepped outside, wiping tears from his eyes as he chuckled.

"Jim, you won't believe this," he called out. "I just sat through five whole minutes of some punk saying he was beat up by a giant bat creature," he said, breaking out into another fit of laughter. Gordon wasn't amused at all. Again his mouth hung open and his eyes widened in disbelief.

"What?" he snapped. Just then, an officer came out of Merkel's booth, escorting a thug dressed in drab street clothes. His eyes were wide with paranoia, a large swollen bruise on the side of his face.

"I'm telling ya man, it was a giant bat creature! A bat, man, it was a giant bat!" The thug continued raving all the way down the hall to the holding cells. Gordon followed them with his gaze with a look of shock on his face.

"I tell you, they keep getting wackier and wackier," Merkel scoffed.

"Maroni just said that he was taken out by a giant, shadow creature," Gordon said with a serious look. Merkel's grin faded into a frown.

"What? Then there's something to this," he observed.

"I don't know," he said, his eyes still lingering where the officer and thug had turned a corner and disappeared. "But until we do, keep a lid on it."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

This was completely unexpected and unwelcomed. Gillian Loeb never liked being chastised, especially in his own office. He was grateful that the meetings were not face to face so that Carmine Falcone could see him squirm behind his desk. Even the commanding voice of the Roman was enough to make Loeb uncomfortable.

"This is becoming a problem, Gillian," Falcone's grating voice said through the speaker of the phone.

"Look, Carmine, I didn't know anything about this till yesterday," Loeb explained. It was all put on file but I didn't see them."

"This is the third night in a row that I've had my men come to me, ranting on about a giant bat creature. First I had Black Mask, swallowing up my business and now I have some freak wrapping up my guys and dropping them off at your front door like a damn UPS delivery man! Which by the way I still hold you responsible for Sally getting locked up." Gillian swallowed uncomfortably. "Poor Sally was so paranoid that I sent him away for some fresh air. This is not what I pay you for."

"Look, Carmine, I told you, I was not in the office at the time, it was Gordon. If you would just keep me in the loop, I could help plan better, make sure the right people are on the right shift," Loeb suggested.

"I don't tell you about my business, Gillian," Carmine snapped. "This 'Gordon' guy, if he's becoming a problem again then perhaps its time he be dealt with,"

"No way!" Loeb refuted. "Gordon's a public hero," he snorted. "If anything were to happen to him, the press would have a field day!"

Bruce pressed his ear even closer to the wall, his eyes narrowing aggressively with each word spoken by the crime lord and the police commissioner. He heard everything clearly through the listening device installed to one side of the black cowl.

"He's a cop," Falcone stated. "Cops get hurt almost every day of the week, sometimes, things just go bad. Send Flass to do it."

"Alright, alright," Loeb relented. "I'll have him do it on Thursday, tonight's his night off. Figure I'll give the guy a break." That was all Bruce needed to hear. In the darkness of the Dispatch center within the GCPD building, Bruce had kept the listening device installed in his cowl active to monitor footsteps in the hallway outside when he singled out the voice of Commissioner Loeb in council with Carmine Falcone himself. The audio recorder stashed away in his utility belt was linked with the listening device, picking up every word of the conversation. He knew with every word they said, the recording would be more than valuable when the time came. The clue left by Buzz Bronski, a thug for Black Mask, was easy enough to follow. There was only one 'Flass' of note in Gotham City and that was the likes of Detective Arnold Flass. Bruce had quite a substantial file on the crooked detective. Flass was traceable back to many tasks and favors for Falcone. _Another Falcone turncoat_ , Bruce observed. After two hours of staking out the Gotham Police Department building from the outside, he'd decided to sneak inside through the ventilation system. Turning back to the large, glowing screens mounted on the wall over a large controller desk, he made his way to the department's Lojack hub. Having already hacked the GCPD's computer system with his specially modified, military grade PDA, Bruce already had access to the radio frequency to the receiver in Detective Flass' Ford Taurus. Bruce dialed in the frequency on the transponder setup then looked over at one of the mounted screens. A map of Gotham filled the screen with a smaller window on top of it reading ' _Locating…'_ Bruce glanced over at the door with anticipation, at any minute the second dispatch officer would return from their run to the restroom. Finally the overlaying window disappeared and the map of the vast city had consolidated to a detailed map of the Park Row district in lower Gotham. A red dot was set on the map with a label, the license plate number of Flass' car, exactly sixteen blocks southeast of the department building. Bruce had all that he needed. Moving away from the glow of the monitors and back into the shadows, he passed the unconscious dispatch officer, slunk in his chair, eyes closed and mouth hung open with a small pin-sized dart stuck in his neck.

The location of the Lojack reciever wasn't Flass' home. Perched on the roof of a decrepit, brick building, Bruce peered down into a pitch dark alleyway. Like the Narrows, Park Row was a district of Gotham devoid of the light and vibrant civility of the Diamond District in the center of the city. However it wasn't always this way. Unlike the Narrows which was doomed and forgotten from the start, the old Gotham neighborhood had remained a small taste of its 'brick and mortar days.' It was mostly residential with stretches of small shops along certain streets. For some time, it had been a tourism draw, rich with churches, novelty shops, clubs and theatres, but that was some time ago. Park Row was infected and the disease had spread far, but was not all lost, yet.

Bruce reached to the back of his utility belt and brought a compact, multi-imagery scope to his eye. Thumbing the control, he activated the thermal infrared imaging. The zoomed in view of the dark alley below suddenly glowed sharply in a grayscale atmosphere. He could see as clear as day. A small digital dial in the corner of the image raffled off varying degrees of temperature as he scanned the crosshairs across the alley and focused on the hood of the Ford Taurus. The hood glowed white in the vivid gray of the image as the dial read approximately 156 degrees Fahrenheit. Knowing Flass' home was approximately seven miles from this alley, Bruce calculated that his car had been parked for almost nine minutes. He wouldn't have to wait long before the detective returned. In the corner of his eye, Bruce spotted a vivid, white figure stroll down the alley. The man was solidly built with a naturally large frame hidden underneath a trench coat. Bruce stowed away his scope away to the back of his belt as he crouched low on the ledge of the building. He watched as Flass approached his car. In his hands, he rifled through a stack of twenties, his fingers greedily flipping each bill. Dirty money, most likely a bribe. Bruce would find the perps afterwards, now Flass was all that mattered. With a wide, smug grin, Flass pocketed the money and opened the drivers side door of his car. It rocked under his weight as he settled into the seat. Flass inserted the keys and turned on the ignition. The engine of the car revved to life as the headlights fired beams of illumination in the darkness of the alley. _Sound cover, time to strike._ Bruce leapt off the roof, dropping straight down and crushing the hood of the car. Flass jumped in his seat, recoiling from the sudden crushing thud on the hood and a dark figure completely shrouded in black hunched low, glaring at him.

"Son of a-!" Flass went for his Smith and Wesson 5906 in his trench coat, drawing it with practiced ease. His hand shook as he let off a wide shot. Dust of glass showered Bruce as a dime sized hole punctured the windshield. Bruce felt the closeness to the bullet then reacted faster than Flass could pull the trigger a second time. Glass shattered as Bruce's gloved fist punched straight through and grasped Flass' wrist, twisting the gun free. Bruce punched the glass a second time and with both hands grasped the lapels of Flass' coat. The detective screamed as he was suddenly wrenched from his seat, crashing through the windshield. A gash on his head bled into his face, obscuring his eyes. He was held up close to Bruce's menacing, glaring face.

"I know you know who Black Mask is."

"Y-you think I'm scared?" Flass stammered. The whites of his eyes betrayed his bluff. Tightening his fists on Flass' coat, Bruce inched him closer.

"Yes, I do," he said with grit teeth. Spinning round, he tossed the detective aside, crashing hard into a pair of dented, dingy, metal trashcans. Flass grunted, trying to will himself up out of the scattered garbage. Suddenly, he felt hands on him again as he was lifted off the ground and pinned to the brick wall. He felt a quick hard impact on his face, then another and another as Bruce recoiled his clenched fist. "I'm losing patience," he growled. Flass blubbered, mumbling nonsensically from the pain in his battered face. "Talk, now!" Bruce pressed on as he spun Flass around, pinning him face first into the wall. He held out the detective's arm, slowly raising it back, pulling beyond the straining resistance of the joint. Flass cried out into the brick wall as the pain increased. Bruce waited long enough, it was clear Flass wasn't going to talk before he either passed out from loss of blood or immense pain. "I'll be watching you, scum," he muttered into Flass' ear. Grasping the back of Flass' shaved head, Bruce controlled the force of the slam against the brickwall. Another series of gashes scraped his face as the detective fell over limply. Bruce crouched over the stirring form of the large detective, checking his pulse. He'd live, but would certainly be out of active duty for some time, Captain Gordon was safe for now. Running his gloved hands over the detectives pockets, he found his cell phone. Bruce pressed the button on the top of the phone. The screen illuminated with a photograph of Flass and five other men all dressed in Gotham High School Letterman jackets. An icon of a padlock glowed in the center. With a frown, Bruce set the phone aside and continued to search till he located the detective's wallet. Bruce flipped the brown leather trifold open, the heavier wing housed the detective's GCPD badge. Bruce opened one of the six pouches on his utility belt and picked out a small, thin disk the size of a quarter. Bruce pinched a button on the surface and a tiny red light flashed once then went out again. He concealed the miniscule tracking device within a relatively unused slot of the wallet. Folding it closed, he put the wallet back in Flass' pocket then stood over the detective. If Flass wouldn't tell him where he could find, Black Mask, then he would have to lead him there himself. Bruce drew his grapnel gun and aimed to the rooftops above, his thumb just rested on the red firing stud when he heard the faint buzzing at his feet. Bruce lowered his arm his focus suddenly attracted by the glow of the cell phone screen. Scooping the phone off of the ground, a smirk slowly grew on his face. There in the center of the old high school screen image was a rectangular bubble headlined with a phone number.

 _Steel Mill, pronto. Boss has news._

Bruce read the text over three times and yet he couldn't shake the feeling that this was exactly what he was after.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

For ships sailing in to Gotham Harbor along the eastern coast, there was no deception. The Industrial District edged along the coastline was a blatantly honest first impression to the true grittiness that the city had offer. The façade of decency of the Diamond District was overwritten by the foreground of giant steel structures and towering, billowing smoke stacks. What once represented the good, honest labor of good honest men that made Gotham the 'greatest city in America,' now instead remained as an abandoned memory, tainted by the disease of crime and corruption.

Wayne Enterprise used to own a collection of warehouses in the district that Bruce had before visited in the company of his father. It was a grimy, dull place even then as the blue collar working population dwindled, held on by a handful of manufacturing companies that ruled Gotham, among them was Janus Manufacture, the owner and administrator of the Janus Steel Mill. The mill's closure dealt the fatal blow that finally broke the Industrial District, leaving it open for Gotham's sickness to set in.

Bruce knew of only three major steel manufacturers located in the city but even before his trace of the phone number' verification, he had a feeling that the summoning came from the Janus Steel Mill. Perched on the roof of the building across the road, Bruce watched the gate of the main lot for the massive, plain, rusted metal building. The Warehouse complex dominated the left side of the steel mill lot like a palace with the right side lined with six rows of towering smokestacks like the turrets of a castle. From where Bruce was perched, he could spot the fronts of five different cars all parked along the side lot. Sentries dressed in cheap black suits patrolled the fence line with MP5Ks cradled in their hands. At nearly one fifteen in the morning, something was definitely happening inside. Suddenly from down the road to the right, Bruce spotted headlights as a stark white '76 Lincoln Continental approached casually down the dim lit street. As it got closer, the surface reflected each spot of light from the street lamps before finally turning in through the opening gate. The brake lights glowed red from the distance. Bruce drew his multi imagery scope and peered through the lens. The car doors opened and more men dressed in black suits stepped out. Each of their faces were covered by the same plastic face mask worn by all of the men Bruce had encountered under the service of Black Mask. Last to step out was a broad yet lanky man. He adjusted the lapels of his white trench coat as he stood out in the middle of the lot. As the man glanced about the chilly silence of the night, his gaze swept past Bruce from a far. Black Mask's wooden, skull-like mask seemed almost as a replacement to his face. It was a fitting visage, whomever the crime lord truly was seemed to be forgotten, lost or dead, replaced by the masked menace of death himself. Even more so the question pressed in Bruce's mind.

 _Who are you?_

Flanked by two of his henchmen, Black Mask turned toward the front door to the steel mill and disappeared inside. Bruce knew he had to be present in this meeting, if his guess was correct, Black Mask was summoning his inner circle, planning their next move. Bruce stood from his perch and drew the grapnel gun. He fired a line to the roof of the massive warehouse complex, zipping through the air as the cable recoiled in the chamber. He reached the top and pulled himself over the ledge onto the relatively sloped surface of the warehouse. Tapping the control installed on his belt, Bruce activated the listening device in his cowl, recording the feed from the receiver. Bruce had to sort through the brief exchanges of small talk between the sentries till he finally honed in on what he wanted to hear.

"Well if he aint gonna show, then we aint waiting for him," a gruff voice ranted, the same voice Bruce heard on the phone from the shipping yard four nights prior. As Bruce crept closer to the left edge of the roof, the signal grew stronger and clearer. He carefully peered over the edge finding the window mere feet from the roof. Bruce drew his PDA and from one of the pouches on his belt uncoiled a fiber optic camera cable. Plugging one end into a port on his PDA, he lowered the cable and aimed it through the window. The room was an office, most likely for the foreman of the mill, lit by fixtures in the ceiling, offering a hazy view inside but it was just enough for Bruce to get an idea of the room's occupants. Five masked men sat around a long rectangular table, their heads all turned away from the window and focused on Black Mask. The crime lord stood at the head of the table with his hands firmly planted on the surface making him hunch his shoulders. Bruce couldn't see what was laid out on the table from his view but noticed glasses of liquor near the placement of each man in the room.

"There aint no reason wait any longer," Black Mask continued. "Maroni's gone AWOL and Falcone's gripping straws. We've got the drug trade by the balls, right Sanchez?"

"Heroin and cocaine distribution is solid, bringing in quite a stream of revenue from that." Black Mask nodded his head in approval.

"The old man's weapons trade, look in the dictionary for the definition of a 'joke,' you'll find that." A brief round of chuckles filled the quiet in the room. "The point is, we own the market. We own the market, we own the city. Its high time Falcone comes to terms with that. This is the final phase, after tonight, its open season on Falcone." Black Mask turned his head and looked at the man closest to him around the table. "Ducane," he said. "Tell me about the 'geezer.'" Outside the window, Bruce retracted the fiber optic cable and coiled it back into a pouch on his utility belt. It was clear, Black Mask was going to strike and he was going to hit hard, Bruce had to hit first and he had to do it now. Still listening in, he stood and fired his grapnel at the roof. The puncture point of the hook pierced the steel roof and caught securely as the collapsible hooks sprung outward dug into the surface. Bruce held the gun in outward and inched over the ledge of the roof, using the line to gently rappel down the wall, all the while, the he listened in on the meeting.

"He aint too good," a deep voiced man replied. "He on edge, what with you pressing him and then that 'thing' that's been around." A thick wave of deafening silence filled the room as eyes glanced about the room at each other.

"Thing?" Black Mask inquired shrewdly. "You mean the thing that brought down Sally and put poor old Buzz behind bars," he said. Bruce couldn't help the smirk on his face as he listened in. "Anyone got anything on that?" Black Mask demanded. Another tense pause took hold. Finally in position, Bruce kicked off of the wall. As he swung back toward the wall, he aimed straight for the window.

The glass shattered just as Bruce engaged the line ejection, firing one of the four spools free of the gun. He landed low on the floor, his cape closing in around him as he stood up, glaring menacingly straight at the skull-faced crime lord. All six men recoiled in their seats, startled by the shattered window and sudden appearance of the black shrouded figure. "Well speak of the devil," Black Mask said as he recomposed himself. "So you're the one everybody's talking about," he said.

"It's over, Black Mask," Bruce growled.

"Really?" the crime lord scoffed. "Then why are you the only one here without a gun?" The clicking of the hammers of automatic handguns surrounded Bruce. In the fringe of his vision, he could see the muzzle of each gun pointed at him. _Stupid and reckless charging in like this._ From underneath the concealment of his cape, he opened one of the pouches on his belt and picked out three small, marble sized capsules. "I suppose I should thank you for taking out Sally for me," Black Mask continued, remaining behind the table with his dull eyes boring down on Bruce. "Now I'm going to hit Falcone and wipe his name from history," he added with a slam of his fist on the wooden surface. "This city is mine, and no costumed freak job is gonna get in my way." Bruce knew what was coming and made his move. He threw the capsule down. A spark flashed on the floor at his feet and a plume of white smoke billowed rapidly around him and within seconds enveloped the room. With the shattered window, the smoke cover would clear in seconds, he had to move fast. "Kill him!" Black Mask snarled. Small arms fire erupted. Tiny flashes of the muzzles sparked in the shroud of smoke as the mobsters all fired blindly. All inside the smoke were blinded, barely able to see a foot in front of them. Bruce dropped back along the wall, avoiding the center of the room where the concentration of fire was laid down. He closed his eyes, relying purely on his hearing. As he slid along the wall, he detected a mobster right out in front. Bruce stooped low, grasping the mobster's ankles and yanking him down. With a yelp, he went down, slamming his chin on the edge of the table with a crash.

"What was that?" another Mobster demanded from across the table. With an approximate location, Bruce's hand went for one of the two spring loaded dispensers on the sides of his belt, drawing small, sharp bat-shaped blades. He cast three in one throw, spreading them across the smoke filled room. Another wail sounded from across the table as one of the blades lodged into the arm of a mobster. To his right, Bruce heard the click of a pump sliding back then forth. The smoke was clearing and dark silhouettes were slowly becoming more defined. Bruce had just turned toward the single figure at the head of the table when an immense flash filled his eyes. For a moment he was blinded then for a split second, a ringing set in his ears, then it all went quiet and dark.

The smoke seeped clear of the office. The four remaining mobsters all searched around them before finding Black Mask. He was right where they'd last seen him with a stockless Mossberg twelve gauge shotgun smoking in his hands. At his feet, the black-clad figure laid sprawled on his back. "Well that's that," Black Mask scoffed. He tossed the shotgun aside and tugged at his suit jacket. "Make sure he's dead," he said as he turned to the office door. "And clean up the mess." The door closed, leaving the four remaining mobsters still gawking at the body on the floor. One of them inched closer, warily leaning backwards as he prodded with his feet. The Mobster kicked the man's leg cautiously then retreated.

"Is it dead?" one of them asked.

"Look for a wallet," the one called 'Sanchez' suggested.

"Hey someone check on Chucky over there," another barked, pointing to the mobster laid out on his stomach with a cut chin. As the mobster leaned in closer over the figure again, he dared to look even closer. Bruce's eyes snapped open and he his legs lashed out. He kicked the mobster down and sprang to his feet. The other mobster on the left side of the table stood up from checking on Chucky only to have his head grasped and slammed down on the table. He collapsed on the floor just as Bruce kicked the table. It slid across the floor ramming into the midriffs of the remaining two mobsters. They keeled over, just far enough for Bruce to grab the backs of their collars and pull them onto the table surface. To finish them, Bruce then drove his elbows into their spines.

With the room incapacitated, Bruce wanted to pause and catch his breath but knew his time was running short. Grunting he felt his chest, still tender from the punch of the twelve gauge slug. His Kevlar woven suit was scuffed and punctured on his chest but was still intact. From outside, he heard an engine turnover and tires screech as a car was pulling away. Without hesitation, Bruce leapt through the office window looking out over the assembly floor of the steel mill. The window shattered as he somersaulted through the air then momentarily activated a rigid frame in his cape through an electrical current from his gloves. The cape hardened into the shape of long, black wings, slowing his descent. Bruce landed low on the floor as he released his cape, returning it to its natural, billowing state.

Looking over his shoulder, he spotted the red taillights of Black Mask's 76 Lincoln Continental. Two men stood on either sides of the wide open loading door to the lot outside. Both leveled and fired their MP5-Ks at Bruce. He leapt to the side, rolling behind the cover of a stack of wooden crates. The rattle of automatic fire relented momentarily. Bruce rolled back out from cover, his hands went straight for the dispensers on the sides of his belt as he drew a batarang in each hand and threw them at the two gunmen. The blades dug into their targets, drawing blood as they released their submachine guns. Bruce charged at them, leaping into the air and kicking one down while airborne then striking the other with a left cross to the face. Just as Bruce dealt a second blow to the first gunman, a third rounded the corner. Bruce evaded the gunfire, leaping away from the other two to draw away his fire. While in mid role, Bruce drew another batarang and tossed it. The blade stuck in the henchman's arm. Dropping his weapon, he grasped his wound in pain, screeching as Bruce advanced and uppercut the thug. Slightly lifted from his feet, the thug crashed onto the ground, dazed. More armed henchmen were on the move to join the fight.

Bruce drew his grapnel gun from the back of his belt and fired a line at the roof overhead. The winch drew him from his feet and sent him up to the rooftop. He stood on the rooftop, peering down the road to try and spot the Lincoln. As he searched the black roadways, he found no trace of the white car and the crime lord inside it.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

A chemistry textbook lay open on the bed with a notebook full of scribbled notes beside it. A pencil tapped the page over and over. With a groan, Barbara Gordon's head hung inches away from the page.

"Talk back to your cop dad, get grounded for the week," she muttered as her hand hunted for the TV remote. She clicked through channels with a bored expression on her face. She finally stopped on a channel, her eyes perking open as her attention was suddenly piqued. She turned up the volume and shuffled her stomach closer to the edge of her bed with her legs crossed, hunching closer to the television screen set on top of her dresser. Gotham Action News' Anchor, Alex Knox sat in front of a blue screen with a headline set over his right shoulder.

POLICE OFFICER ASSAULTED

"Tonight a Gotham City Policeman was brutally assaulted down in Park Row." We have reporter Viki Vale live on scene, Viki." Barbara held her breath as the image on the screen changed to the live broadcast of a petite blonde woman wrapped in a tan, double breasted coat, holding a microphone just under her pink colored lips. She had to hear the name and was praying it wasn't the only one she cared about.

"Thanks Alex," she said with a smile before her expression focused again. "Just half an hour ago, Gotham Police Detective Arnold Flass was found in this alleyway, viciously attacked." Barbara let her breath free. Not only was she relieved to find that it wasn't her father, now she found herself quite interested. Flass was a name she'd heard from her father before and never in good context.

"He has suffered a concussion due to blunt trauma to his head, multiple cracked ribs, a broken wrist and a dislocated shoulder. No official statement has been made by police as to the cause of the attack, however, many similarities can be drawn made to the hundreds of battery cases against alleged criminals. Multiple witness accounts describe their assailant as a giant black creature, few even going as far as describing it as a giant, bat, human hybrid." A smirk set on the reporter's face as she continued. Barbara felt herself inching even closer to the screen. She pressed her glasses to her face as she watched, eyes wide with intrigue. "Certain insinuations have even gone as far to say that this Bat-Man was implicate in the apprehension of the infamous criminal, Salvatore Maroni. Here comes Captain James Gordon now from the scene." From behind the reporter, Gordon strode away from the bustle of paramedics and police officers. His expression was tired, his short ginger hair slightly disheveled as he wiped the lenses of his glasses on a handkerchief. "Captain Gordon!" Viki Vale called out as she scurried over to him. Barbara never realized just how small Vale was until she stood beside her father, a rather unremarkable looking man.

"No comment," Gordon blurted sternly.

"Captain, is this another attack by this vigilante, the Bat-Man?" she pressed on as Gordon tried to avoid her.

"No comment," he restated sharply. Again he moved to get away but she intercepted his path, showing just how quick and stubborn she was.

"What do you say to the insinuations that the Bat-Man was in fact the one that apprehended Crime Boss, Salvatore Maroni?" Gordo replaced his glasses and fixed her with a harsh glare.

"Look, there is no Batman." Without a single word, he turned away briskly and darted straight away from the camera. Viki Vale returned the microphone back in place under her mouth.

"More on this story as it develops. I'm Viki Vale, Gotham Action News. Back to you, Alex." Barbara ignored the anchorman completely as he mind was still transfixed on the last story. She stared at the television screen, her blue eyes wide and mouth hung open.

"Too cool."


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

For two nights, Bruce had focused his nightly patrol around his one and only lead. He spent the night, remaining within the five mile radius of the lower end of the Industrial District. He was determined more than ever to find Black Mask. Each night that passed without a major attack being reported, Bruce would grow more and more uneasy. He heard Black Mask plainly and knew that his hit on Falcone was imminent. Bruce remained on the rooftops, not daring to conduct his patrol from the seat of his MV Augusta F4 sportsbike. Each night since his encounter at the Janus Steel Mill, the streets of the Industrial District were patrolled by silent, watchful police squad cars. Parked along the shoulder of the road by the steel mill, a police car sat dormant. From his perch Bruce periodically eyed the car as his gaze drifted across the skyline of the Industrial District and western Gotham off in the distance. Suddenly the engine of the squad car turned over. Its headlights shot a beam across the road that tuned sharply around the corner as the car took off. Bruce watched it speed away and seconds later the siren blared through the streets now bathed in red and blue lights. He stood up and drew his grapnel gun, firing a line that sent him soaring through the air, following after the car. Bruce engaged his listening device as he remained a mere four meters behind.

"- Unit 52, responding to backup request at Axis Chemicals. ETA five minutes." From where Bruce glided, he turned his head to the right and could spot the billowing column of smoke from the plant's ventilation shafts. He veered in the new direction, cutting across lower buildings before finally landing on the rooftop of a warehouse outside of the fence line of the Axis Chemicals complex.

The processing plant was fairly isolated from the rest of the district, situated in its own barren spot in the middle on the coast. A complicated collection of structures of rusted metal piping systems and silos surrounded a large plain looking warehouse. At the top of the roof, a large red neon sign blazed in the night sky, AXIS CHEMICALS. The fence was barbed and the main gate undisturbed. The air was still, no sign of an alarm but then, Bruce heard it.

Off to the left gunshots echoed to him. Three men sprinted down an alley of piping. One turned around to aim a handgun, firing away at a security guard on a catwalk behind them. The three stopped abruptly as one of them suddenly kicked in a side door and wrenched the second man inside. The third was about to follow when suddenly another gunshot cracked in the air. Bruce's gaze dropped to a police car outside of the fence's front gate, its door wide open and the officer standing with his sidearm drawn and aimed. The third of the intruders slumped against the wide open door. Bruce had seen enough, it was obvious the responding police officer had an itchy trigger finger. He had to end this before anyone else was killed.

Firing his grapnel at the arm of an industrial crane, he soared through the air, disengaging the line and activating his cape's glider frame by grasping the edge and sending an electrical current through his gloves. The capes rigid form carried him over the dirt surface of the complex to the roof top of the warehouse. He landed low in a crouch, his black suit colored by the giant neon glow of the sign. Flourishing his cape, Bruce continued across the roof to a row of skylights. Dust and grime blurred the image into the darkness of the plant's chemical storage chamber. He peered inside, searching for the trespassers.

It was obvious that Black Mask had nothing to do with this break in, in fact, Bruce had no idea who these trespassers were or even what they wanted from a chemical plant. One of them was already dead by the hands of incompetent police officers, he couldn't let anymore die.

Looking inside, Bruce only saw mazes of piping and valve controls. Installed into the floor of the chamber were rows of giant cylindrical vats twelve feet wide in diameter. Above the churning, fuming vats ran long, narrow, grated, metal catwalks. Finally, Bruce saw them. The remaining two trespassers ran across the catwalk directly below him. Without further hesitation, Bruce jumped up onto the skylight, shattering the glass as he dropped fifteen feet straight to the catwalk, landing low, hunching in the shadows. The red glow of the sign spilled over him in the darkness, offering nothing more than a terrifying outline of a demonic shape. The first intruder stopped in his tracks, just short of five feet from the looming figure in the darkness. His eyes were white with terror as he stammered and stumbled backwards.

"Holy Hell!" Bruce stood up, his towering posture made him all the more menacing to the already terrified trespasser. "No way, man, not the bat thing!" he shrieked as he abruptly spun around and charged back down the catwalk. His partner behind him had only just stopped before ramming into each other's shoulders. The trespasser plowed past him, taking off back down the catwalk as the second man stumbled back. The force of the impact lifted him from his feet, losing his balance. Bruce watched in utter shock, completely forgetting the first trespasser as his partner, a man dressed in normal street clothes, a maroon leather jacket and his face concealed with a crimson ski mask, toppled over the railing of the catwalk.

"No!" Bruce blurted as he lunged forward, his glove hand outstretched only inches too short of the brown leather gloved hand grasping at the air as he fell backwards. A scream was muffled by the mask as he plummeted straight into the darkness of a vat below with a splash. Seconds felt like minutes to Bruce as he hung half over the railing, his hand still outstretched over the fuming swirl of chemicals.

"Freeze!" a voice barked from below. A gunshot cracked and Bruce ducked, bringing his cape over his face. The policeman's shot missed its mark as the bullet impacted a valve underneath the walkway. Steam burst from the piping and an alarm suddenly blared with a flashing red light filling the darkness of the chamber. Bruce drew his grapnel and fired a line to the skylight above. As he disappeared through the shattered skylight, he looked down at the vat of chemicals. The contents swirled as they flushed from the vat emptying through a waste disposal duct.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Standing in the middle of the manor's threshold, Alfred's attention was suddenly drawn to the incessant, heavy 'tock' of the grandfather clock set aside the arch of the main hallway spanning deeper into the mansion. He stood as brisk as a pole, turning only his head to the fine hand-carved dark cherry wood masterpiece. The gold pendulum swung heavily back and forth behind the glass pane. The silver numbers were difficult to discern from the sheen of the gold face but the gold hands' position told the butler the night was close to three-forty.

He sighed deeply as he looked down at the marble floor. As much as Alfred prided himself at being adaptable, a trait well earned through a short, yet well served military career, his master was the one change he just couldn't quite accept. In truth, he didn't know what he should have expected. After experiencing what the young Bruce Wayne had, there were a number of different paths he could have gone down over the years, some far healthier than others. Where on that spectrum of sanity did 'vigilantism' fall? He struggled to decide.

Lately, watching the news hadn't offered much help. It was as if there was no other topic of discussion in Gotham City except for the rumors of the dark creature, the giant demon, the Bat-Man. Yet even still, Alfred had deciphered one of the emotions jumbled in the mess of his confliction, pride. He couldn't deny the awesome feats of his master. Then again, he shouldn't be surprised.

Even before the tragedy, the boy was inquisitive and remarkably intellectual. One night stood out vividly to the wise butler. He had sat in a chair beside the bed of a six year old Bruce Wayne. By only the light of a bedside lamp, Alfred had read out loud from one of his favorite works of mystery by the poet Edgar Allen Poe. The boy's affinity to details awed the then twenty-nine year old English butler.

As much as he tried, Alfred couldn't quite recall exactly which story it was. Nothing else was required of him, not until his master returned that morning from his night of reckless 'thrill seeking.' It was the only explanation he could quite think of, but whenever he would draw to it for understanding, he rejected the theory instantly, his master was no fool. Still gnawed by the failure of remembering the story title, he turned around and strode under the archway past the clock. He continued down the warmly lit, wood paneled hallway till he came to the library. Turning the brass knob, he entered the shadowy library. The towering rows of wooden bookshelves cast gigantic shadows, held at bay only by the blazing flames set in the fireplace. On the maroon carpet, a shadow was cast, a man seated in the velvet armchair in front of the flames.

"Master Bruce?" Alfred inquired. "Back already?" Like a statue, Bruce remained in the chair, elbow resting on the arm rest and his face buried in his hand. The black Kevlar suit nearly blended in the dark blue velvet of the chair in the immense darkness. Alfred remained still and silent, a mere two paces from the door. For a moment all that could be heard was the crackling of the fire.

"I failed tonight, Alfred," he whispered with a strain. "Someone died tonight because of me." Alfred approached slowly, his expression of concern mixed with caution.

"Tell me what happened," he said. Bruce shook his head, lifting it from his hand and fixing his sharp, grieving blue eyes on the dance of the flame.

"Doesn't matter really," he started.

"Yes it does," Alfred interjected. Bruce looked to his butler before returned his gaze to the fireplace.

"There were these two perps. They were below me. I jumped down in front of one of them," Bruce recalled from memory. "The walkway was narrow. One of the perps got scared and knocked his friend into a vat of chemicals as he ran away." Alfred's expression remained as he listened, and even more importantly, as he watched. "I should have saved him, I should have done something to save them. And now they're dead. They're dead because I failed to act." Bruce's eyes were closed tight now, his head hung low against his chest. Alfred lifted his gaze to the large portrait above the mantel of the fireplace. The smiles seemed to fade in the shadows as Thomas and Martha Wayne looked upon their pained son.

 _"_ _Why did they have to die?"_ A young voice demanded in Alfred's mind.

 _"_ _Some things, especially bad things, just happen, Master Bruce. It is beyond our control and nothing that we do can change that."_

 _"_ _But Alfred, why them?"_

 _"_ _Master Bruce, everything happens for a purpose. It may not be fair, and we may never understand it, but there is a reason for why bad things happen, and it is solely so that better things can happen."_

For reasons Alfred never understood, that had seemed to be a comfort for the young boy.

"Poppycock," Alfred said briskly as he stepped up to him. Grasping his broad shoulders, Alfred lifted Bruce from the armchair onto his booted feet. "Master Bruce, you have not failed. This is not your fault, they are not your fault," he added with a shake of Bruce's shoulders. Bruce opened his eyes and lifted his head. "No matter how far away you travel, no matter who trains you and no matter what tactic or technique you master, you cannot and never will beat fate. Now why did this man die in the chemicals? I do not know. But I do know that criminals are being caught on the streets, people are being saved from other bad things happening to them. All because of the Batman. And as unfair as It is, the death of your parents was the birth of the Batman." The both of them stared at each other for a moment.

"The Batman?" Bruce inquired. Alfred smirked, his thin, greying mustache twitched.

"It is what they are calling you. You have made quite an impression." An electronic beeping sounded from the back of Bruce's belt. Bruce reached back and retrieved the PDA from its holder. Alfred eyed the device with a frown. "Sir?"

"The computer, its found something," Bruce said. He turned, looking across to the metal slabbed door in the middle of the back wall.

"Right behind you, Sir," Alfred said with a grin. Bruce looked back at his wise, forty-eight year old butler, a man that since Bruce's birth, had never abandoned him, and from his kind gaze, he knew never would. 

With Alfred following closely, Bruce hurried across the walkway from the transport lift to the second landing in the cave. He made his way straight to the computer system set up in the center, sitting down in the chair. A new window glowed green in the dim grey of the cave. With his finger hovering over one of the screens, he traced the movement of his eyes as he read.

"Of course," Bruce exclaimed. "Before crashing itself, Janus Manufacture inherited the steel mill. It was originally owned and run by Sionis Industries," Bruce read out loud.

"Richard Sionis was a powerful business man," Alfred said. "He and your father did a fair amount of business together." Bruce looked back to the computer screen and selected the link, _SIONIS_.

"Both Richard and his wife, Olivia Sionis were killed in a fire seven years ago, cause still unknown. Already a dwindling company, Sionis Industries was passed on to their only son, Roman Sionis."

"In your youth, you did have some dealings with him," Alfred recalled. Bruce glanced back at Alfred before gazing off back at the computer, deep in thought. They had merely been boys at that time, but even then, Roman had been no ordinary child. He had been cold, no doubt from having never known warmth from his own parents, altogether, unpleasant company. Entitled and selfish, always vying for more power.

"The Purloined Letter," Bruce suddenly said to himself. Alfred's eyebrows rose in surprise, it seemed that both he and Bruce shared the same exact moment in their memory that very night. "When the answer is right in front of you." Bruce stood from the computer, still hunching over as he quickly searched the computer. "Roman Sionis still has a few different addresses listed here in Gotham."

"If I may, Sir," Alfred suggested. Bruce suddenly realized his loyal butler was no longer at his side. He looked over his shoulder to find Alfred standing beside a table set along the railing of the landing. In his hands, he held the black folded square of Bruce's cape and the rigid black kevlar cowl of the bat. "It sounds like Roman Sionis requires a face to face with the Batman."


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Another hit successful. It sounded like quite a party on the other end of the phone as Black Mask's thugs treated themselves to the spoils of war. Everything had fallen into place. Black Mask had pushed as far as he could on Falcone by overrunning White Falcon, the crime lord's most prestigious night club. A nice little bonus would have been to kill the old man in the raid on the club, but there was still a plan in place. In mere hours, Gotham City would be in control of the Black Mask. For a moment, Black Mask just felt like standing in the middle of his spacious office and cackle away into the silence. Suddenly his phone rang again. Mask looked back over his shoulder to his large desk set along the large windows overlooking the balcony over the city skyline of the Diamond District. Off on the corner of the desk was a cordless phone set on the dock. With a sigh of annoyance, he approached the desk and pressed a button on the dock. "This better be good," he barked out loud to the speaker grille. His dull eyes focused on the steady flash of the red light on the dock but no reply ever came. "Hello," he called out. "Start talking!" Still there was no response. Mask couldn't even hear any sign of feedback from the other end, but the light assured him the call was active. Standing braced on the edge of his desk, he continued to focus on the phone, his temper boiling at the mere prospect of a prank caller. "Do you have any idea who I am?" he sneered from behind the black, wooden visage of a skull.

"Roman Sionis," a deep menacing voice whispered through the grille. Black Mask's muscles ceased, his dull eyes widened with life, long lost as his jaw hung slack. With a quick hand, he snatched the handset from the dock and brought it up to his ear.

"Who the hell is this?" A force grasped the back of his head, slamming his face into the desk and holding him there. He could taste blood in his mouth. His legs went limp as his arms flailed and struggled to pry free from the desk.

"I'm the Batman," the voice growled into Mask's ear. He felt himself spun round but was instantly dazed by another blow to the face. His hand pawed at his desk for anything he could use with one object in mind. His fingers felt the cool, slim steel of a dagger-like letter opener. Grasping the fat, polished wood hilt, he drove the blade down into the shoulder of his attacker, twisting it in deeper against the heavy resistance of the Kevlar. The thin steel blade snapped in half, sticking out of Bruce's shoulder as he growled and recoiled.

"Pleased to meet ya," Black Mask replied smugly as he hunched, ready for his next move. Taking a step in, Mask brought back his fist and threw a punch. Bruce managed to pull the blade from his bleeding shoulder, throwing it aside with a clatter. He caught Mask's punch with one hand, driving his opposite elbow down on his opponent's wrist then following through with the same elbow into Black Mask's face. Dazed, he stumbled backwards and Bruce grabbed him by the collar of his white fine white shirt and heaved him over the desk. Black Mask crashed and tumbled into his red, leather office chair with the white coat of his pinstripe suit draped over it. He lay on his side, waiting for his head to clear but the black gloved hands were on him again. Grabbed by his shirt, Mask was forced onto his feet up against the window. A quick jab to his midriff expelled all air from his lungs before an even faster palm slammed his sternum. Effortlessly, Black Mask crashed straight through the shattering glass. He groaned, struggling to crawl through broken glass away from his attacker, glaring down at him through the darkened atmosphere of his office. Bits of glass on the balcony cut his hands and fingers as he shuffled backwards. Bruce slowly stepped through the shattered window, looming closer and closer to the feebly helpless Black Mask. "Do I look scared to you?" he stammered. Standing over him, Bruce lifted him by the collar. With his other hand, he wrenched the wooden mask from his face. Bruce gave one thoughtless glance to the black skull in his hand before tossing it aside and glaring down at a face long hidden for many years. The pasty, pale skin was taught over the angular skull beneath. His short, black hair was matted and in disarray and his dull, beady dark eyes looked up at him, trying to hide the fear that threatened to surface. With a snarl, Bruce stood over him, raining down blows with his fist as he lifted him from the balcony with the other hand. Feeling a throb under the plating on his knuckles, he stopped. Dazed, bruised and bleeding from the blows to his face, Roman Sionis fought to remain conscious, barely coherent but still unaware of exactly what his opponent was doing. Bruce stood back up, grabbing Roman with both hands by his collar. He brought him close, the sharp nose of his black cowl only an inch from the shattered pile on cartilage of Roman's.

"You're finished, Sionis," he growled with grit teeth. With a heave, Bruce threw Sionis over the iron railing on the ledge of the balcony. Roman screamed as he flew clear over the railing and dropped through the air. His heart raced as he felt gravity take over and he fell two stories. Then he snagged to a stop as the line around his ankle went taught and he jolted, slamming his body hard against the side of the tower. Bruce stood at the ledge of the balcony, looking down at Roman's dangling body. With one quick check of the line secured to the iron bars of the railing, he turned away going back into the office. He collected the broken letter opener blade with his blood stained an inch from the point on his way to the main office door. Tossing it open his casually strode through the next room, walking over the beaten unconscious forms of Black Mask's henchmen as he made his way to a the open hallway window in the corridor. Perched on the open window, he tossed the blade far from the tower then fired a line with his grapnel gun; there was still one stop left to make before the night was through.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

With a shaking, wrinkled hand, The Roman held the crystal decanter over the rim of the glass, titling the brandy free. Carmine Falcone's personal physician warned him time and time again against drinking in late hours due to his health. But after losing as much as he had within the last week, what did he care if he dropped dead that morning. One bad report after another from his trusted associates. One day it was his drug distributions, the next his weapon's trade, all shot to hell by the Black Mask. On top of it all, another agitator was causing him problems, hospitalizing the rest of his peddlers left over from Black Mask's takeover. Falcone's face seemed frozen in a scowl, his mood seeming to fester worse and worse with every passing minute and every stinging drink.

He couldn't sleep, no matter how hard he tried and desperately wanted to. Even in the comfort of his luxurious, penthouse bedroom wearing his expensive silk pajamas and robe, he couldn't succumb to sleep. His large, four poster bed seemed like mush on his feeble back. The flames in the fireplace heated the room far too much and the open balcony door made the March night's chill overpowering.

Falcone turned away from the wet bar in the corner of the spacious master bedroom. Frozen in place, his jaw hung slack as his eyes widened and his fingers lost tension on the crystal glass. The glass shattered on impact of the polished, wooden floor. Blocking the city lights through his open balcony door was a large black shadow. The broad, tall figure stood absolutely still, shrouded in darkness. On the crown of its head were two long, sharp ears like the horns of a demon. Falcone felt its chilling stare as it focused solely on him.

"What the Hell!" he bellowed as he started for his bedside table. Laying in the warm glow of a the lamp was his personal ivory handled chrome M19A11. His fingers a mere inch away suddenly stopped as a black, razor sharp shuriken in the shape of a bat lodged into the wood surface of the tabletop between his hand and the gun. Falcone retracted his hand, grabbing his wrist and staring at the blade still vibrating with the end of the wing stuck in the wood. He looked back at the dark figure, still standing perfectly still, its cape draped around his entire body. "Son of a gun, so you are real," he stated. Fire set in his eyes as he gathered his wits once again. "You got a lot of nerve coming here you freak, here in my own home. If you think that you can beat me up and send me away to the cops like you did Sally, you got another thing coming," he said with a snarl as he rounded from behind the foot of his bed, standing a rooms length away from the intruder. "I own this town," he added with a stiff jab of his finger into his chest. Bruce continued to stare at Falcone from the shroud of his cowl, hiding his disdain of the crime lord's arrogance. This was the most feared man in Gotham, but he was still just that, a man. He still had fear and Bruce knew exactly what it was that Carmine Falcone 'The Roman' was afraid of. From underneath his black cape, his arm emerged holding a manila folder out for Falcone to see. Falcone looked from the file back to the figure in the shadows. "What's that?" he inquired.

"A list of everyone loyal to you that actually belong to Black Mask," Bruce answered with a deep, serious voice. He moved slowly across the floor to the side of the room, towards the desk set in front of the blazing fireplace. "Carlton Ducane, your head of security and personal bodyguard, waiting just outside that door," Bruce recited with a quick glance to the double doors on the other side of the room. "He's in Black Mask's inner circle." The change in Falcone's expression was subtle, but not enough for Bruce to miss it. His sharp grey eyes glossed over as he fell into deep thought. "They're a lot closer to you than you think," Bruce taunted. With a brisk toss, he threw the file into the burning mouth of the fireplace. Falcone lurched toward the fireplace as he watched the file slowly get eaten away in the flames.

"No!" no gasped in alarm, but Bruce stepped in his path.

"You have no power over this city, Carmine," he said. It was unmistakable, the doubt that set in Falcone's eyes, burrowing deep in his mind where it would fester and drive him mad with paranoia.

With a flourish of his cape, he made his way back to the balcony. "Leave Gotham, never come back. If you do," he paused as he stood in the open doorway and looked back over his shoulder, the profile of his menacing cowl, the sharp, angry features, pointed nose and long blade, like ears looked all the more demonic in the moonlight. "I'll bring you down myself."

"What do you think I am, stupid?" Falcone stammered. "You're bluffing." Bruce refrained from smirking at the man's feeble attempt, he had to maintain his image.

"Can you afford to take that risk?" he asked. For a moment, he remained in the doorway, looking over his shoulder, allowing it all to soak in for Falcone. Carmine was frozen in place, barely aware that the figure was still there until suddenly, it wasn't. Bruce leapt off the balcony, disappearing into the cool Gotham night.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

"A rousing night for Gotham PD today as the mysterious crime lord, Black Mask was apprehended and unmasked," anchorman Alexander Knox reported with an overly serious look on his chiseled and polished face. "Identified as Roman Sionis, son and successor of Richard Sionis, was arrested at Lacey Towers at approximately four-ten in the morning today. He was found hanging upside down fourty-three stories outside of his penthouse office with a cable around his leg tied to the balcony. When asked if this astounding occurrence was at all related to the mysterious vigilante known as 'the Bat-Man,' Police Commissioner Gillian Loeb had this to say."

The image of Gotham Action News' primped anchorman changed to a press conference outside of the GCPD headquarters. In front of the stone steps leading up to the glass, double doored entrance was a single wooden podium with five differently marked microphones all aimed at the mouth of the tall, round figure of the commissioner. His dark, double breasted suit was finely pressed and accented with a blaring red tie. Worn on the golden buttoned pocket of his jacket was his shined badge. Commissioner Loeb knew how to look good in front of a camera, providing the ultimate façade of complete reassurance and power. Not a single black whisker of his mustache was out of place and even the dark dome of his bald head seemed polished. On his flanks were other uniformed police officers in their navy blue uniforms.

"The arrest of Mr. Sionis, a.k.a. the Black Mask was done with supreme, police intelligence and the execution of a well coordinated plan that resulted in a zero casualty raid on his area of operations."

"Is it now common police practice to leave criminals hanging upside down?" blurted a reporter from the assembly off camera. Loeb ignored him and waved with a politician's smile.

"Thank you, no further questions." The image changed back to the anchorman.

"In other news, Bruce Wayne, the son of Thomas and Martha Wayne, has returned to Gotham City after ten years abroad. Gotham's most elusive billionare flew into Gotham International from Costa Rica today, arriving at ten-fifteen in the morning. According to representatives of the Wayne Foundation, the purpose of Mr. Wayne's ten year departure was to complete his formal education and to, quote, 'find himself.'" Knox's smug eyebrow raise said it all. "When asked to comment by Reporter, Viki Vale, on Gotham's hottest topic, the Batman, the eccentric billionaire had this to say." Once again the image changed to a congested gathering of excited reporters crowded around one man. He was tall and broad, filling out his black trench coat. His clean, young face seemed far older than he really was by his strong, square jaw, his eyes hidden behind large, dark wireframe sunglasses. One reporter managed to muscled her way to his side, holding a microphone out for him.

"Bruce, any thoughts on the mysterious Batman?" Viki Vale asked. Bruce Wayne gave the microphone an estranged look.

"The 'Batman?' sounds like he could use a publicist," he responded. It was off the cuff, thoughtlessly ignorant. The image changed back to the anchorman but Jim Gordon was done paying attention. He vigorously pressed the mute button on the remote, silencing the small TV set on the bar outside the kitchen. He set the remote down and rubbed his eyes from under the lenses of his glasses.

"My first day off since I don't know how long," he muttered as he leaned back in the chair. From around the corner of the counter, his daughter Barbara approached the dining table with two plates in her hands. She set the plate of eggs and bacon in front of her father then sat down across from him. "I don't want to talk or even hear about any 'Bat-Man' for the next forty-eight hours," he sighed. His eyes set on his Daughter from across the table, a mug of hot apple cider hiding the amused smile on her face. She lowered the mug, still watching him from behind her own glasses. "Barbara," Jim said warningly.

"So is 'he' real?" she asked enthusiastically. Gordon groaned. "He is, isn't he!" she pressed on. Jim stared at her with a warning look.

"He isn't a hero, he's a criminal, and he'll be arrested just like Maroni and Sionis."

"But he brought them to justice!" she argued. Gordon gawked at her, it wasn't often that Barbara came at odds with her father.

"Barb, I firmly believe that justice can still be served within the bounds of the law."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he voice faded off as she took another sip of her apple cider. As Gordon set to eat his breakfast, cutting away at the strip of bacon, his mind wandered. With Black Mask behind bars, he was bound to have a new target, the Batman.

TO BE CONTINUED…


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